


A Vision of You

by IMAgentMI, PFLAgentYork (Legendaerie)



Series: RP-verse [7]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Mirror Sex, RP Verse, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Sex, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 12:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMAgentMI/pseuds/IMAgentMI, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/PFLAgentYork
Summary: York and Carolina act out a dream.





	A Vision of You

**Author's Note:**

> Day late because I'm Sick As Hell.

Carolina surfaced from sleep, dream blending into reality briefly. It took her a moment to realize that the breath hot on her neck was real, as were the soft moans and the feeling of York rutting against her.   

 

He is holding her, spooning together as they usually do when they sleep, his body curled around her protectively.  She can't see him, can't tell if he is awake or asleep, but the slightly uncoordinated movements suggest the latter.  He usually initiates sex only after waking her with a kiss, after talking.  He's either dreaming or this is something new.  

 

Carolina half turns toward him.  She doesn't want to move too quickly, to startle him if he is asleep.  It's hard to see him in the darkness but his breathing seems to change.  He is still moving against her but his pace falters too.  She tries to snuggle against him, not to encourage, but to offer closer contact as he awakens.  “York.  Sweetheart.  Can you hear me?  You awake?”

 

The Carolina in his dreams melts away to be replaced with the real one. He jerks when he opens his eyes, the curtain of sleep lifting in measures.

 

“Sssssorry,” he mumbles, aware of how he’s moving against her and stopping. “I am now.”

 

“Don't be.”  She turns the rest of the way towards him, and to prove she's not upset, kisses him warmly on the mouth.  “Not a bad way to wake up in the morning.  I hope it was a good dream?”  

 

“Extremely,” he admits. “It was about you. Had to be.” In fact, he’d love to go back to sleep and finish the scenario, but it eats at York’s romantic tendencies to have woken his girlfriend up by groping her, even if she doesn't seem to mind. 

 

Carolina’s next kiss carries considerably more heat.  “Mmm.  Good to hear.  Do you want to tell me about it?  Anything you remember?  Maybe we can pick up where you left off…”  One hand slides up behind his neck, pulling him tighter into the kiss, massaging around his port.  “You're not dreaming now, but I'll do my best.  Unless we were flying or something.” She laughs for a moment against his mouth.  “Nothing I can do about that.  But I'll try anything else.” 

 

The dream is fraying apart at the edges, but York gathers what he can as his eyes close, a tingle of pleasure rippling down his spine from the kind touch at the back of his head.

 

“We were at a nightclub. Some kind of mission. You were in a skirt and heels and were pretending you didn't know me since it’d blow our cover or something but you kept buying me drinks and flirting with me.” The way she kept tossing her hair his direction, drawing his eyes as she talked to other people but would cross her legs and hike up her skirt a couple dangerous inches before tugging it back down. “We were having sex--” the phrasing is inaccurate for how rough, fast, and exhilarating it was, the door unable to lock and Carolina reaching behind him to play with his hair, lined up perfectly from heel to shoulder, “--in the bathroom.”

 

Carolina kisses him again when he pauses, her own arousal building, and she arches her back to press her breasts against him, slips one leg over his hip.  “Go on,” she whispers, leaning forward to nuzzle his neck.  “Tell me more.  I want to hear more.”

 

“I hated watching you flirt with other men. You hated watching me dance with other women.” He kisses her like he hadn't been able to in the dream, afraid of smearing her makeup. It's affecting her too by the looks of it, and he’s glad they’d been too tired to fuck last night and fallen asleep in clothes. It heightens the sensation, the cotton of his boxers tight against his skin as her thigh pulls the garment taut. “So we started dancing-- and then grinding, your b-back to my front.”

 

“This sounds like the best mission ever.  I'm glad you were so dedicated to not blowing our cover.”  Carolinas hand moves down his body to palm him through his boxers.  “I was probably tempted to blow...something else.”  She can tell she's getting wet, is afraid to draw his attention to it yet-- in the past that discovery has sent him nearly wild with desire, and while she wants to see him lose control, she wants to hear this even more.  “We were in the bathroom?”

 

York sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I-- I couldn't get the door locked and you laughed at me but then--” dreams are confusing, playing with his sense of time and space, but this is burned into him. “--then you yanked your panties off and t-told me to fuck you-- take you from behind in front of the sink so I wouldn't mess up your make up and-- so we could watch what we do to each other.”

 

“I like this dream-me… she has good ideas.”  It takes everything she has not to grind against him, especially when she feels his cock twitch under her hand. It's so hard to keep herself under control just a little longer.  But it doesn't stop her voice from sounding rough and hungry in his ear.  “Did you like it?  Was it good?”

 

“So good,” he groans, so turned on he feels dizzy. “Do you-- do-- do you wanna try it? N-now?”  

 

“Fuck yes.  In the bathroom?  Shit, I wish I'd left my formal stuff here… I'll just have to stay up on my toes as long as I can.  I can't rip off my panties for you though, since I'm not wearing any.”  She seizes his hand, his fingers, maneuvering them between her legs to prove it.  Without touching herself she can feel how wet she is, just by the way his fingers move over her with no friction whatsoever.  

 

Every time he feels her like this, molten with how hot and slippery she is, it almost hurts. Every time it feels like a shot of morphine or a chug of tequila, that bone deep kick that triples his heart rate and makes him feel as though he’s broken from want. Every time he can't help but gasp her name and kiss her, as though the only air left in the world is in her lungs and they’ll die if they don't share it.

 

“Bathroom,” York agrees when he pulls away from both her mouth and her slit and noses her in encouragement to move.

 

Carolina swings her legs out over the bed and stands. She slept in one of York's t-shirts, and it's long enough to cover her past her hips.  It can't pass for a dress, but hides enough of her from view that maybe it can capture at least the spirit of the dream.  She would have given a pretty to have a pair of heels though.  Maybe she’ll talk to Niner, find a pair to leave here, just for York.  

 

He's heading straight for the bathroom but Carolina snags his hand, holds him back so they switch places, so she can lead him in. She stops in the doorway, guiding York’s hand up her thigh, up to her waist, pulling him down for one last kiss before they both step into the small room.  She positions them both in front of the mirror, taking a moment to study them together before raising a hand up to catch in his hair.  “When you're ready…”

 

York holds her reflected gaze as he reaches down to shove his boxers down, one hand covering hers on the sink and lacing their fingers as the other coaxed her thighs apart and guides the head of his cock inside her. A shift of his hips makes him slip out, still caught between her thighs and rubbing against her clit. He kisses the back of her neck, gently requesting “bend over a little more?” inches from her ear and pushing in again, a little deeper this time. He looks back up to the mirror when he thrusts, watching her face as he goes in almost the whole way and back out again, the movement of his hips cushioned by her ass in a way that no dream could ever do justice.

 

“How's it feel?” he asks, sleep hoarse voice wrecked already.

 

With the mirror there, there's no way to hide from the way her cheeks flush, how red her lips go at his touch, or the way her eyes flutter as he pushes in.  The way it feels as he fills her is so different from this angle, he feels so much deeper, and when he is fully sheathed in her it steals her breath - she gasps, and just to reassure him she's okay, arches her back and moves against him, Even if she can only manage a tiny bit at first.  “Good.  Really, really good.”

 

She's so used to being in charge, in control, and placed like this, there's no escaping how vulnerable she is, how trusting she has to be.  It's new for them, and she embraces it, eyes on him to see how he reacts.

 

The hand that had been between her legs slides up her side, lifting her shirt all the way up to expose one breast before the fabric falls back. Hypnotized by the scene, every movement York makes is slow, even as he gathers her hair up to drape it over one shoulder, exposing the back of her neck to the drag of his lips. Fingers still laced together on the sink, he rubs his thumb against her skin.

 

Now that he has her here, all sense of haste has fallen away; in the dream it was quick and rough, Carolina bending herself neatly in half to force him to her pace, but this Carolina is still sleep-soft with tangles in her hair; a vulnerability that makes him so fiercely possessive and protective of her it startles him. Maybe she sees it too, with how her eyes widen and darken, her mouth falling open as he rolls his hips over and over to the beat of an unnamed rhythm.

 

Carolina wants to close her eyes, to lose herself in his movement, but she can't bear to break her gaze from his.  She wonders what he is feeling, how this matches what he dreamed, if it is just as good as he imagined.  She wonders if he can tell how good it is for her, and how she can tell him without breaking the spell.

 

The nuzzles on her neck start to turn to kisses, down to her shoulder as he noses the collar of her shirt out of the way, scooting her hand further forward on the sink to better the angle. Every inch of him is hyper-aware of her, of how much she trusts him and how damn good she looks. When he snaps his hips, burying himself in her all the way, for once the sound she makes drowns his out.

 

“Still good?” His kisses are tender, shifting darker as he nips at her with the edges of his teeth, tugging gently at the skin of her shoulder. “Or is it my turn to make you speechless?”

 

The mark he left he instantly soothes with his tongue, breaking eye contact at last to focus entirely on that spot as his free hand smoothes down the front of her shirt. His palm skims over her breast, against the hard nipple, to cup her hip and steady his thrusts.

 

Her fingers tighten against his and her head drops forward as she tries to think of a retort, any response at all.  She moves against him trying to match his thrusts again, try to coax the same sounds from him that are coming from her.  But a peek again at the mirror doesn't help- she's absolutely wrecked, as thoroughly as she's ever seen him.  

 

She's moaning with almost every breath, and his teeth make her gasp and shake against him.  It takes his hand on her breast before she can pull herself together enough to speak.

 

“Bite… bite the back of… of my neck.”  She arches her back, hopes he can reach.  “ _ Hard.” _

 

He complies immediately, sinking his teeth into her nape and clamping down harder as she tightens around him, her voice breaking on his name, and he needs to keep himself from screaming. When he pulls off, there’s deep dents in her skin, red edged in white, and York kisses the spot in apology. His pace hardly falters, having found one that works and has their skin slapping together in such a way that echoes in the bathroom; harmonizing with their gasps and groans and the utterly obscene wet noise of their fucking.

 

York slides his hand down further to stroke her clit and finds her practically dripping on his fingers, the wetness having nowhere to go with her legs squared and nothing below them but the tile floor. He wonders if they’re leaving spots down there, between their feet, and the look he shoots their reflection is one that puts her state to shame.

 

Her grip on the sink might be the only thing that is keeping her knees from buckling.  York’s thrusts, his hand on her clit are racing her along toward her climax, but it is the look in his eyes that pushes her over, and she wails as she tightens around him.  She staggers slightly, holding tightly to the sink, one hand blindly reaching forward to brace herself against the mirror as he continues to rock into her, her low continuous moan rising and falling as he fucks her.

 

It takes everything in him to stay upright, and even so he bends over her, forehead pressed between her shoulders as he tries to get closer even though there is no closer than this; he chokes on a scream, the breath so thoroughly yanked from his body with his orgasm that he feels as though he’s been thrown out an airlock.  When he gasps it’s a noisy, shaky inhale, and it comes out on a plea of “ _ Carolina _ ” like he’s begging for mercy.

 

York keeps moving inside her until he feels her go limp, shivering as her hand slides down the mirror with a squeal. He wraps his arm around her hips, helping hold her up as if he’s in any better shape, and he presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek as he drinks their reflection in.

 

Carolina wearily raises her head, tilting it slightly to the side to avoid the handprint on the mirror, to see his face.  Her arms are in danger of losing her grip on the sink but she still leans her cheek against his anyway, before shifting her weight back.  She lets out a weak hollow laugh.  “I can't feel my legs.  Not much any way. S’all pins and needles.”  Sheer exhaustion drops her head down over the sink again.  “You literally fucked me until I can't stand up.  Oh my god, York…”  Another laugh, quieter than the first.  “That was so good.”

 

He rocks his hips one last time before pulling out, groaning at how good that last kick of overstimulation felt, and he snatches a washcloth off the rack to cup under her sex. York kisses up the side of her neck again, so in love it hurts. “I ain’t much better, honestly. Shit,” he breathes, “how is that so different, but so good too?” 

 

“I don't know.”  There is something so intimate, so tender in the way that he stands there, hand between her legs, catching his semen as it seeps out of her.  Carolina is dimly aware that this is a moment she will remember, that will stay with her for years, maybe the rest of her life.  She wonders if it still makes him feel as raw as it did that very first time he came inside her, when he was so crestfallen to think that moment with her was reduced to only a temporary mess.  He doesn't seem to be hurting now -- he looks tired and happy, and has that soft look in his eyes he gets right before he says he loves her.  

 

She moves her weight back and forth, testing her legs, trying to judge how quickly they are coming back to life.  There is still a building sense of pins and needles and she scrubs her fist along one leg.  “Shit York… what did you do to me?”  She smiles up at their reflections and sees the same soft look in her eyes too.  “I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.” York adjusts the washcloth, careful not to press too hard on hypersensitive flesh. A quick survey of his bathroom and he coaxes her a couple steps to the side, collapsing on the shower mat and leaning against the wall as she falls into his lap. For good measure, he yanks one of the towels off the rack above him and drapes it around her shoulders. “This help any?”

 

“You help.”  She leans her head against his shoulder, her fingers stroking his face, savoring the sweetness welling up inside of her.  It becomes too much, and she pulls his head down to hers, leaning together while her fingers play in his hair.  There's an unexpected peace here, seated on the cold floor of a bathroom on a spaceship at some godforsaken hour of the night, and he is at the center of it.  She presses her lips to his, grateful to once again be face to face, and when she finally pulls back to catch his gaze, she has to admit that it simply feels too good, too beautiful to be real. 

 

It’s rare he gets to see her this soft, this tender; York handles her with the utmost care, in stark contrast to the rag he flings blindly into the empty shower. “So much better than a dream,” he whispers, hands sliding to her thighs and rubbing up and down as if to coax feeling back into them.

 

She smiles, eyes closing under his touch and she snuggles closer.  “Still, make sure you tell me whenever you dream about us. Especially if they all lead to great sex like this.”  She leans forward, nips playfully at his collarbone and enjoys the way his breath catches.  

 

York is glad she can’t see his face in that moment, his pulse jumping for another reason entirely; when he dreams of them, he dreams of marriage and children and a bed warm with sleep and sunlight. “I’ll be sure to share all the dirty ones,” he recovers, sliding a hand between her warm thighs to check for any lingering mess, “in explicit detail.”

 

Satisfied that they’re as clean as they’re going to get, York coaxes her on her feet just long enough to scoop her up, bridal style, and stumble back to bed. A glance at the clock confirms the ungodly hour, but he doesn’t mourn the lost sleep at all. Especially not when Carolina straddles him, chest to chest, the lingering damp on her inner thighs spreading to his hips. 

 

She leans down to kiss him, slow and sweet, even as it lengthens.  Carolina pulls back to watch his eyes open in the dim light, then kisses his nose as she stretches out over him, loving and lazy.  She tucks her face against her favourite spot on his neck and huffs a gentle sigh.  “Good night, York.” She smiles as she feels his arms tighten around her in response.  “Sweet dreams.”


End file.
